“Yes,” Jaren interrupted tightly, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “Among others.”

“Trust me, I’ve heard them all,” Kiva said, applying more gel. “But you don’t see me getting in fights over them. Especially with the prison rebels. Gods, what were you thinking?”

“The prison—” Jaren broke off with a curse. “Are you serious?”

“As serious as death,” Kiva said flatly. “Which you need to prepare for, if they decide to paint a target on your back.”

In a low tone, Jaren said, “I didn’t realize who they were.”

“Cresta is their leader in here,” Kiva said, prompting  Jaren to swear again. Her gaze traveled over to Tilda, and she added, “You’re lucky they have bigger concerns than you right now, or your next stop would be the morgue.”

A strained moment passed before Jaren quietly asked, “Doesn’t it bother you, what they say? Not just Cresta, but everyone? Doesn’t it hurt?”

“They’re just words,” Kiva said, ignoring the pang in her heart. Of course it hurt. No one wanted to be known as a bitch or a whore or any of the other names that had been slung at her over the last decade.

“They’re not just words,” Jaren argued. “They’re mean, untrue slanderings said by disrespectful bullies, and you don’t deserve to be treated like that. You’re losing sleep trying to help all these people, including Cresta. The least they can do is not publicly insult you.”

Finishing with the gel, Kiva stepped back and said, “Shouldn’t that be for me to decide?”

Jaren frowned. “What?”

Kiva pointed a finger to her chest. “They’re saying those things about me. Shouldn’t I get to decide whether or not to punish them? Or do you think I’d have chosen to have you slam your fist into their faces just to prove an object lesson?”

The gold in Jaren’s eyes blazed angrily against the blue. “You weren’t there.”

“And you weren’t there for the last ten years of this happening,” Kiva snapped back at him. “You think I don’t know how to handle this by now? You think I haven’t tried retaliating and learned firsthand just how much worse that makes it?”